


The Sun is also a Star

by AltheaB



Category: Javert and Valjean, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hugo will kill me, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fluff and crack and smut, i hope this works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaB/pseuds/AltheaB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: Graphic Descriptions of Injuries. Also, graphic sex, soon enough.</p><p>Javert is grievously wounded by Thenardier while unwittingly defending Valjean and Cosette's house. Of course, he is taken in and cared for, and much to his disgust, he cannot find his handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> After selfishly stalking all the Valjean - Javert stories I could find, I thought it was about time to give back. First try - comments, constructive criticism, flames and, of course love - all welcome! I really hope you like it.

There is a dark shadow in the corner, where the respectable street branches off into the seedy alleyway.

It wobbles, then seems to split at the seams, spitting out wriggling larvae that swarm around No. 5, Rue de l’Homme Arme, seeking the man and girl who sleep obliviously within. One scales the gate, the other crawls through a gap in the hedge, and one, fatefully, attempts to pry open a window. It shatters. The glass tinkles to the ground.

Nearby, a certain Inspector, First Class, of the Paris Police, is on patrol. The shattering glass assaults his senses, carefully tuned to the murmurings of the night. He turns, catching the scent, and sees the last of the shadows slithering into the garden. He knows its gait, just as he can identify the vast majority of the Paris underworld by sight, speech, or even, in several cases, smell. Thenardier.

The long, lean lines of muscular body spring into action – wolf-like, he bounds towards No. 5.

The fight is short, but rough. The five sleazy criminals are no match for the inspector who is controlled by the fire of justice that burns in his heart – the inspector himself is helpless in its grip. His baton whirls through the air, crunching upon each painful impact with the criminals’ sorry hides. They advance on him as one, yet are driven back by the sheer force behind his blows. Three turn and run, bruised and fractured, while the inspector attempts to cuff the other two. He grabs one, but, as he reaches for his cuffs, the other – Thenardier – pulls a knife out of his sleeve and stabs him deep in the gut. He ignores it, but suddenly his arm cannot move. His baton falls out of limp fingers, and he slides to the ground, broken shards of glass from the shattered window embedding themselves in his back. The cuffs roll away into the bushes, and the other man grabs the inspector’s arms and jerks them above his head. Thenardier grins, light glinting off his stolen gold tooth, and raises his knife to the inspector’s neck, caressing it gently with the slim blade.

“Goodbye, Monsieur l’Inspecteur”, he hisses. “Fils de salop – you’ve plagued me long enough.” He slowly draws the knife across the inspector’s cheek, leaving a deep gash, and moves to his groin. Suddenly, he stabs, deep. The inspector cannot hold back a desperate scream of pain. The sound echoes endlessly in the night. Thenardier laughs, a terrible, mad sound. “I’m going to-” A large rock thuds into the back of his skull, and he whirls, dazed. A man, not as tall as the Inspector but even more impressively muscled, is advancing towards him. Cowards in the face of real danger, the men drop everything and run.

Javert – for of course it is he – cannot bear the weight of his eyelids. The last thing he sees before he slips into black unconsciousness is the familiar shadow of Valjean, leaning over him. He is too weak even to even be surprised. Instead, it somehow seems fitting, that fate delivers him wounded and gasping right into his enemy’s lair. The last thing he feels is Valjean’s strong hands gently staunching the blood flowing from his wounded stomach. He wants Valjean’s arms to feel like a jail; instead they are an embrace.

\---------------------------------------------------------

 Burning. Heat. Flames. Scorching, roaring, bubbling miasma.

_Fire._

Javert feels a burning throb in his abdomen, but it is nothing, nothing, compared to the searing, blinding, _by the stars, let it stop_ agony between his thighs. The deep holes in his back are nothing more than needle pricks in the face of this pain.

He has no idea where he is, aware of nothing more than his immediate surroundings. He is wearing a thin white shift, lying on a mattress that looks expensive and soft, but pain has left him too numb to notice. There is a cold compress on his head, and a chair with a cushion that looks as if it has just been vacated. His back is hurting, but he cannot move – he tries to reach out a hand to the headboard of the bed to change his position, but it falls back, limp, over his gasping face. His sweat mixes with the melting ice from the cold compress, and the icy heat sends him tumbling into delirium once more. As his lids close, all he can see are the blurry halos surrounding two handsome silver candlesticks placed on the windowsill. They are brighter, more alluringly demanding, than the stars. As the delirium takes hold, Javert’s last coherent emotion is anger. How dare the usurping flame try and outdo the stars? The stars are the guardians of the night… they are supreme… stars…

More blackness. He does not see Valjean come in with more ice water, does not feel the soft touch on his forehead, and does not know that Valjean has not slept for two nights to tend to him, and will not sleep this night, either.

 ---------------------------------------------------------

The next time he wakes, the sun is low in the horizon, a glowing splash of fiery dusk. He is almost used to the agonizing burn rippling through his battered body, and his lower half seems to be in the deepest, most roiling flames of hell. Nonetheless, his old philosophy returns. _Either scare it away, throw it in a cell, or ignore it._ He pries open his eyelids, and hears a muted gasp from somewhere beside him. A pair of intent, expressive, sky-blue eyes come into view. For a moment, the concern and sorrow in their everlasting depths remind him of nothing he has ever known before. His brain progresses to take in the crinkled lines at their edges, giving the eyes a look of profound gentleness. Then, suddenly, he gasps – the familiar outline of the face resolves itself into even more familiar features in the fading light. _24601!_ His eyes widen, and his mouth attempts to say he does not know what. Instinctively, his hands make for the familiar pocket at his waist which contains his handcuffs. His fingers scrape against the nightshift, mistakenly brushing against the wound in his side. The pain flares, white-hot. Unconsciousness claims him, again.


	2. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more... I don't even know. Please don't hate too much. It's twisted. I don't know my own mind.

He is burning with fever, but somehow awake. Valjean is there, this time spooning hot soup into his mouth. He cannot swallow properly – most of it dribbles down the side of his mouth, onto a carefully placed towel. He is humiliated – his old adversary is spoon-feeding him like a babe! – but, after his last attempt at handcuffing him, he knows it is beyond his limits. Besides, there is no one else to take care of him, and he does not think he can walk to a public hospital. Hating every motion of the muscles of his mouth, his throat works mechanically, like a fish, determined to take advantage of the convict’s foolish decision to nurse him and return to full health, to finally be able to return him to Toulon, where he belongs.

“Javert? Can you hear me?” Valjean’s concerned voice floats through the fog in his brain. “Can I make you more comfortable?”

Disgusted with his helpless state, he closes his eyes, somehow managing to contort the his face to show the contempt he feels for Valjean, for himself, for this entire situation. _Contemptible, that’s what it is_ , he thinks, savagely.

Valjean sighs. Javert ignores him – this is nothing but a ruse! The convict is obviously trying to make him feel indebted by caring for him in this shameless manner. He wants a deal, nothing more! This humiliating nursing, in return for Javert turning a blind eye to the criminality of his very existence! Another possibility, equally repulsive, snakes its way into his mind - all 24601 is doing is trying to  bribe his way into God’s heaven by falsely caring for him, his tormentor! _I will not be swayed by such petty manipulation_ , he thinks, _and God would be wise not to. Once fallen, always fallen. The stars do not fall._

To his utter dismay, he feels a familiar pressure in his abdomen, insistent enough to be felt over the burning. He tries to ignore it, or at least consign it to a cell in his mind, but it refuses to go away, instead building up till he knows he will embarrass himself terribly if he does not do something about it.

“24601”, he croaks, voice hoarse after days of sickness and determined disuse.

He senses, rather than sees, Valjean’s whole frame vibrate with – what is it? Surprise? Disgust at the hated voice? Anger at the reviled number? He knows, but will not admit, that it is with relief.

“Yes, Javert?”

“I… ah… have to… uh…” Good grief, he feels himself blushing! The mortification only heightens the rose color seeping into his cheeks, deepening down his neck. “My body… has needs…”

“Ah, of course. Do not worry-” Valjean holds out a bedpan. Javert shakes his head in mute horror, cheeks growing, if possible, even redder.

Valjean sighs. He neglects to mention that Javert has been here four days, and he has already changed the sheets several times, instead continuing to hold out the bedpan in a silent entreaty.

They hold this position for what seems like an eternity to Javert.

Finally, with the look of a cornered hound, Javert relents, allowing Valjean to help him position himself. As Valjean leaves to give him some privacy, he lets loose the pressure in his abdomen with a sigh of relief.

It quickly turns into a strangled scream of pain that refuses to be muted, no matter how he tries to command his throat to stop the noise. The liquid flowing through his mutilated cock, still healing after Thenardier’s wound, makes it burn, once more, like the pit of hell. His legs turn to jelly, and he flops helpless to the ground, boneless as an eel, spraying everywhere. He is dripping blood. _By the stars, let me die now._ The very thought of Valjean returning to find him and the room in such a state is enough to make his skin crawl with horror. As he prays to disappear, the door opens, Valjean entering at a run, having heard his scream. Seeing him on the ground, his expression twists into one of sympathy for Javert and horror at his own mistake of leaving him alone, having forgotten about the wound. Javert’s face twists in anger at this pity – it is, perhaps, the one thing he cannot bear. The liquid has stopped trickling out of the mutilated gash between his thighs, and it pools around him as he lies, breathing heavily, eyes closed in shame.

Valjean has rushed to his side, has picked him up with little more than a grunt – _stars, the man is strong!_ – and settled him on the mercifully untouched divan in the corner. Javert feels his fingers, hesitant yet sure, undoing the buttons on the back of his soiled nightshift. They tremble with a strange intensity, but Javert is too ashamed to wonder about it. Valjean hands him a fresh shift, and drapes fresh blankets around him to give him privacy as he changes, turning around to mop the room and carry out the unused bedpan. Shivering with anger, humiliation, cold, and exhaustion, Javert feels his body cave into the blankets and falls into healing sleep.

\---------------------------------------------------------

He wakes, and the silence deafens him. He is back on the bed, wrapped snugly in fresh-smelling sheets. He tries to think, but the only memories that come crashing back are of that cursed 24601 – Valjean carrying him inside after chasing away Thenardier, Valjean sponging his forehead, Valjean feeding him soup, Valjean cleaning up his mess, Valjean trying to give him a modicum of privacy to change… He wants to believe the worst, wants to believe that this is nothing more than a ploy, but whatever else he may be, Javert is not stupid. The level of gentleness and concern that Valjean has displayed... it is certainly far above what he, Javert, has any right to expect, especially after his horrific treatment of the prisoners in Toulon. Privacy? The guards never cared. Pain? They added to it, with the baton and the lash. Hunger? The prisoners regularly starved. Sickness? If ever a doctor entered the prison walls, it was only to tend to wounded guards, never to the captives themselves.

And the eyes. They are not the inhuman eyes of a prisoner, subjected to hell on earth, nor the cunning eyes of a con, nor the mad, grinning eyes of a murdering lunatic. No – the eyes are lined with what can only be sorrow, deep with what can only be wisdom, bright with what can only be love. The eyes echo with gentleness. They are not the eyes of a convict.

_But 24601 is a convict!_

_That is what he is! He is what he is._

_Men can never change._

The man in front of him is 24601, once Jean Valjean. He is a thief, and he spent nineteen years in the galleys. He _is_ a convict.

Then how can his eyes so blatantly contradict this? His eyes are deep blue... like a sky without any stars.

Or a sky with so many stars that there is no sky left to be seen.

Such thoughts are painful, and he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position for his splitting head. Valjean is at his side, instantly.

Perhaps, thinks Javert, it is time for some conversation. Surely that will prove that this man is no saint – that he is the criminal he always was. The criminal he was born to be.

“Thank you, 24601.” The words are careful, the eyes calculating. The gracious phrase – surprising in itself from Javert’s mouth – is all the more jarring when contrasted with the ugliness of the numbers that follow it.

Valjean’s eyes light up with what seems to Javert to be an irrational amount of joy.

“It is my duty, Inspector. You saved me, saved Cosette, from the hands of those vile ruffians. Nursing you back to health is a debt I must pay. It is, in fact, an honor.”

Javert snorts. The motion snakes down to the half-healed scabs on his back, and they crack open and begin to bleed. He ignores the sudden warm trickle of blood, intent on deciphering Valjean’s ulterior motive.

“You owe me no debt, convict. As soon as I am well and have located my handcuffs, I will cart you back to where you belong, where you were destined to return the moment you broke parole. You would do better to let me bleed to death, or, if your cursed charade forces you to pretend you have a conscience, to drop me off at a hospital and disappear as you have done in the past. Be warned, 24601 – I will not relent.” He spits out the last sentence, injecting pure venom into his tone.

Valjean’s eyes flicker with something – no, it cannot be _hurt_ , convicts do not feel _hurt_ – when he says “pretend you have a conscience”, but otherwise remain imperturbably gentle. Javert is angry – his plan is not working. Why is 24601 putting up with more of his torment? Why does he not just kill him, or get rid of him? Why this cursed _care_?

“I am not that man any longer, Inspector. Well, perhaps I am, but then one cannot change what one is. No – one can only change _who_ one is, and I have been trying. Madeleine was not a complete lie- ”

“Madeleine was a falsehood – a wicked ploy to hide yourself! Don’t you dare try and defend your actions to me, 24601. You have spent 19 years in Toulon, you are an animal, you must be. Enough with your charity – it does not become you. Far from being the cover you think, it has only helped me hunt you each time. Madeleine’s excessive charity was enough to excite suspicion in anyone who was not a complete idiot. And as for your ridiculous stint at the Gorbeau House – the ‘beggar who gives alms’? What could be more conspicuous? No, convict, you would do better to dispense with this ludicrous charade! You wish to render me in your debt – I assure you, I will make _no_ deal!”

Unable to cope with such a long speech, Javert’s weakened frame falls back onto the pillows, mouth gasping. His back is bleeding again – he contorts his mouth in a desperately successful effort at stifling any noise of pain. The result is a twisted snarl, that he viciously aims at the convict. Javert feels a savage pleasure – the pain is bearable if it is turned to hatred, carefully aimed.

There is silence.


	3. Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just had to put Cosette in there. Couldn't leave her out - I know this story is already pretty illogical, but somehow just cutting out characters to make the writing easier hits a wrong note with me. Ah well. This chapter is not so twisted as the last... hm. I shall delve further into the dark recesses of my mind in future. ]:)

Javert is wakened by a song sung by a chirpy female voice. His eyes snap open to see a slender, pretty young woman opening the curtains to let the sunlight stream in. She stands there awhile, singing to the sun as Javert sings to the stars. He listens. Their songs are wildly different, though, he realizes. He sings of duty, purpose, the consequences of failure and the burden of heavy destiny. She sings of love, faith, dreams of success and the eternal possibility of rising. Javert finds that, while he does not like the song – he does not like any music at all, really, and does not count his own soliloquies to the stars as anything more than the wanderings of a man starved of any intelligent conversation – it strangely soothes him.

The woman turns, a note balanced on her lips – and sees him awake. Immediately, they curve into a smile; “Ah Monsieur, this is the first I see you awake! I am most relieved – Papa said that you were getting better, but every time I checked you were either unconscious or asleep. Ah, but your eyes are clear, Monsieur, you seem quite well – tell me, is it not a lovely day?”

Javert only vaguely registers this chatter. He assumes this must be Cosette, the child the convict had taken in, the whore’s brat… he thinks the words, but can’t quite bring himself to apply them to the bright creature before him. But to call her Cosette in his mind requires too much of an effort. He settles for Mademoiselle, and with an effort returns his bleary mind to focus on her words.

She continues. “…and I was quite worried – Papa has too few friends, and I would not have him lose you as well!” She beams at him.

He stares, eyes widening as he realizes that yes, he has indeed heard her right. Nonetheless, she can’t have just said what she said. “Pardon, Mademoiselle?”

“Ah, you are just awake, and here I am, chatting away! I was just saying that I am glad you are not ill – Papa has too few friends. He should get out more! But that is talk for later, Monsieur – I will just go and fetch a basin for you to wash.”

She skips lightly out of the room, and Javert is left to his own befuddled thoughts. _Friends?_ Stars, what was his life coming to? _Friends_ with 24601, who had heard of a more ludicrous idea? Surely, the girl must be mistaken. Did she not know how he had hunted the convict she called ‘Papa’? How he hunted him still? How he would never stop hunting him?

She is back in the room, offering him a basin of cool water and some cloths. As he slowly scrubs his face, she says, “Papa has gone to the bakery for fresh bread for breakfast, and I have just made some strawberry jam – perhaps you will be kind enough to sample it? Only if you feel well enough, of course, Monsieur. There is soup left over from last night, which would be easier to swallow, should you prefer. But I personally think the jam would do you wonders! Your expression is quite stricken – some sugar will brighten it up at once!”

With that, she is off, and back again with a small plate of strawberry preserve. “Monsieur must try, I insist!”

No no, this is too much. “I thank you, mademoiselle, but I have never been a fan of sweet things. The leftover soup will be fine – surely this jam is for you and-”

It is well that Cosette interrupts him at this point with a cry of “Nonsense!”, for truly Javert does not know what to call the convict. Valjean? Was that the name he was using with the girl? He can't very well call him ‘convict’ or ‘24601’ in her presence – it would be unconscionably vulgar. What was more, it seems she does not know of his history with 24601; it then follows that she does not know of her Papa’s history at all, for really they are one and the same. Will he be the one to tell her? Can he? Does he have the right?

 _Of course he does_ , he thinks, savagely. _The convict is just that – a convict – and I have no reason to uphold this ridiculous farce for the benefit of the whore’s brat._ He forces himself to call her that – by the stars, there will be no more emotion from him!

Then why do the words refuse to come?

“Indeed, Monsieur, you are a guest, and I assure you there is enough to go around. And it will do you good! If you do not eat yourself I will feed you.”

Javert stares. _The waif looks like she really means it._ And in fact, the jam did look rather appealing. He could not remember the last time he had eaten a sweet. He lived on simple food, never considering elaborate meals to be worth the time or trouble – bread, a little meat, some eggs, sometimes some salad, had sustained him all his life. His seasoning was only salt and sometimes a little lime. Often he dined at his desk, eating only bread to simplify matters. And, as for being _offered_ a sweet – he didn’t think that had ever happened to him at all. Childhood in the prisons was not sweet-friendly.

He finds himself reaching out for the plate, muttering a “Thank you, Mademoiselle.” Her response is a sunny smile that feels entirely inappropriate, given Javert’s full intention of ruining her life and returning her beloved Papa to prison as soon as possible.

He resolutely turns to the jam.

It thus came to pass, that Valjean, on entering, saw his darling Cosette facing Javert, who had the determined, immutable look about him that Valjean knew only too well. His heart leaps with fear. _What has he told her? Why did she not listen and stay away?_ – he turns on his daughter, desperation to keep her feeding the anger brought to life by the look on Javert’s face. “COSETTE! What are you doing here? I told you to stay away! Is this simple instruction too much for your thick skull? Leave - ” He is shouting as he has never shouted before, the emotional turmoil of the past few days finally boiling over at the prospect of losing his beloved Cosette. She, however, is staring at him in horror, never having faced his temper before. Her eyes fill with tears that overflow around open lids, as she continues to stare at him with eyes open wide in shock and incomprehension.

Valjean’s doubts only worsen. _She knows, knows everything, that ruthless monster of a Javert has told her everything, as of course I knew he would – why else would she stare at me like that? I knew this would happen – why did I not leave that cursed Inspector to die?_ Even as guilt wrenches his heart for that terrible thought, his mind remains fixed on Cosette – Cosette, who would hate him forever, Cosette, who would never so much as glance at him again, forget _love_ him! _I am a wretch. It is my own fault, for not being able to leave Javert to die – I knew that he would try and return me to prison, did I not? Cosette would eventually have found out anyway. What does it matter that it is now?_

The thoughts fly through his head. He realizes that he is frozen. Opposite him, so is Cosette. She makes an abortive movement towards the door, when Javert clears his throat.

They both whirl to him. “Calm yourself, man. What wrong has Mademoiselle done to come and care for a poor fellow in his sickbed? I must admit myself shocked. I know you have a low opinion of me, Valjean, but rest assured I am not corrupting your daughter.”

 _Daughter._ The word resonates through Valjean’s skull, accompanied by such a profoundly dizzying wave of relief that he cannot identify it as such. _Daughter – he still calls her my daughter! And she says nothing! Does that mean – can it be? – he has not told her?_ He must check. “C – Co – Cosette?”, he stumbles. She does not answer, still trembling. He holds out his arms, visibly shaking. With a sob, she throws herself into his embrace, and they clutch each other with all the desperation of two people with no one else in the entire world. Valjean allows himself to feel Cosette’s – his _daughter’s_ – soft skin, smell her freshly washed hair, and, when his wild eyes catch Javert’s, they overflow with tears of gratitude.

Javert, his eyes locked on Valjean’s, feels as if he is falling upwards into the sun. For once, he does not break the look. Let him fall – to be one with the stars is, after all, his life’s purpose. And he realizes the sun is also a star.


	4. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next part... twisted, yes. I did warn you. At least IT finally starts... *cackle*. I'm in a weird mood right now. I hope you like it- thank you for all the great comments! I am now going to sit and reply to each one - hee hee newbie fanfic author behavior, but I just love them so much. THANK YOU THANK YOU I hope you like this crazy chapter... I also added a chapter because this is turning out longer than I thought. *Bites nails*

Of course, things never are that easy.

Valjean is holding Cosette close, murmuring _I love you_ s into her hair. Cosette leans in to the embrace, but then pulls away slightly, wiping her eyes. Valjean instinctively tightens his hold on her forearms. “I love you too, Papa. So much. But…” Valjean dreads, rightly, what is to follow. “But there is much I do not understand. Why were you so angry that I disobeyed you and came in here? I was only trying to make Monsieur more comfortable. And… what is that name he just called you? Valjean? Why have I not heard it before?”

Valjean’s heart is thumping so loud he cannot understand why it has not burst out of his chest. Somehow, even with the blank slate that he knows Javert has given him in the eyes of his daughter, he cannot lie. Not now, not here, not again. Not with the Inspector – the embodiment of his haunted past – lying wounded behind him. He finds himself staring into Cosette’s eyes, so filled with love that his fear of a moment ago seems suddenly irrational. _Javert had the goodness not to tell her today, but this cannot go on forever. She will find out some day._ He hesitates, then realizes something more. _The shameful truth, already a burden, will become all the more terrible should she hear it from lips that are not mine._

He decides, then, to tell her.

“My dear…” He is about to say _There is something I should have told you_ , but finds himself choking on the words. Should he have told her before? Perhaps – but his reasons for not doing so were quite understandable. He does not know how to continue, cannot put his disgusting past into words in front of this bright creature, this beloved daughter who opened his eyes to joy.

He hears something shatter behind him, followed closely by a thud. Cosette, eyes staring past his shoulder, shrieks and rushes out of his arms.

Javert has fallen off the divan, lying at a painfully awkward angle at its base. Blood is seeping through the freshly reopened scabs in his back, dyeing the back of his nightshift a deep, infected brown. His features is fixed in the expressionless torment of unconsciousness caused by simple pain, and the plate of jam is lying, shattered, a few centimeters away from the dark thatch of his hair.

The jam lies pooled on the floor like clotted blood.

Valjean and Cosette stand frozen, taking in the frightening sight, before they rush to him, emotional turmoil, if not forgotten, relegated to a position of secondary importance.

“Cosette – take his feet, 3, 2 – lift!” Valjean winces a little in sympathetic pain as he hooks his arms under Javert’s shoulders across his broad chest, brushing against the puncture wounds on his back. Unfortunately, it cannot be helped – the inspector is too heavy to lift in any other manner. Cosette rushes off, muttering frantically about bandages and disinfectant and water, and Valjean leans in to adjust the Inspector’s body into a more comfortable position. He cannot help feeling Javert’s lean, hard muscles through the thin fabric of the borrowed nightshift, and suddenly Valjean is thinking that it is one of _his_ nightshifts, in which he has slept so frequently, that is caressing the Inspector’s bare chest, folding into the crook of his elbows and shoulders, running over the planes of his torso, puckering round his nipples… he cannot stop himself, he is disgusted with himself for thinking this way in the middle of a crisis – _the man is unconscious, for crying out loud!_ – but his thoughts follow the nightshift lower, across the taut muscles of his lower abdomen, brushing the tips of his knees… he is avoiding what lies in between, he is scared of this feeling, he does not, cannot, understand it, but deep within himself he knows that his avoidance of the thought is the greatest form of surrender… he gives in, imagining the beginnings of soft, downy hair on the lower torso, getting thicker, richer, lusher as his mind moves towards the warm, sensitive area that he imagines nestling between muscled, knotted thighs... he pictures a hard, pulsing, soft rod of flesh, rising slowly to meet him… he can no longer control his eyes, and allows them to jerk for a brief, helpless, burning look.

What he sees forces all such thoughts from his head.

The front of the nightshift is drenched with blood, not murky brown like the stains on the back, but a rich, wet color that would be alluring, even bright, if he did not know what it was. Valjean has not yet been able to bring himself to bandage that wound properly, instead choosing to simply wind a strip of gauze across and around Javert’s thighs to prevent any unnecessary, painful motion. He knows now that this was a mistake.

Cosette returns with her arms full of fresh bandages, pushing a basin of water along with her foot. A single look confirms her fears – Javert is still bleeding extensively. “I still do not see why you do not call a doctor, Papa. It would be rather more appropriate.”

Valjean does not answer. They have had this discussion before, and anyway he does not have a real answer, other than that the wounds are neither infected nor need stiches – his time in Toulon has given him a great deal of knowledge about the bearing of inflicted injuries. The doctor would obviously only recommend bed rest. Also, doctors ask questions, demand papers… but he cannot explain this to Cosette, not now, not yet. He could of course leave him at a public hospital – in fact it would be the most prudent thing to do – yet he does not. He tells himself that it is a debt he owes Javert, that he is too ill to be moved, that public hospitals are dirty, overcrowded places. He tries to ignore his inexplicable desire to keep Javert close, after having tried to get as far away from him as possible for as long as he cares to remember. He almost succeeds.

Cosette continues, not expecting an answer, and more focused on the task at hand. “Let us deal with his back quickly, Papa, and then I will leave you to dress the other wound. I would not be of much use anyway, and I do think Monsieur is the type to be very particular about his privacy.” Valjean lets out a snort of rueful agreement at Cosette’s accurate reading of his old enemy, and they quickly change the dressing on the needle-like wounds in Javert’s back, trying not to peel away the scabs as they gently dab them with warm water. Valjean then turns his attention lower, as Cosette softly closes the door behind her.

 Slowly, he lifts the hem of the Inspector’s nightshift, up above his knees, his thighs, and finally brings it to rest bunched around his waist. To Valjean’s horror, the motion stirs something within him, and he feels his cock twitch. Much to his relief, however, it dies down when he sees the gaping wound, and he lets out a small gasp of sympathy, carefully peeling off the blood-drenched bandages, trying to touch as little flesh as possible, praying that Javert does not suddenly regain consciousness.

At the same time, he desperately wants him to.

The wound is cleaned, washed.  Valjean reaches for the dressing, contemplating how best to tie the bandages, when he hears a low moan. His heart skips a beat, then two. Then a groan – his heart will definitely seize if it continues to pound like this. Dazed eyes emerge from shadowed lids, blinking several times before fastening onto Valjean’s. Something moves within their depths, before they fully take in the situation. _My thighs are spread. Valjean is sitting between them, touching me, there._ The pupils contract, darken, as Javert tries to leap. Instead, his body spasms, as he desperately draws his knees up to his chest, away from Valjean. His eyes stare around frantically; in profound relief, he notes that Cosette is not there.

“24601!” The harsh words are strange coming from the habitually fearsome inspector huddled into himself on a divan, limned in sweat, bloody bandages in a pool around his feet. “What- what are you doing?”

Afraid his voice will tremble, Valjean forces himself to speak calmly. “You are wounded, Inspector, and it must be treated if it is to avoid a crippling infection. I am merely cleaning and bandaging it. You are doing no good, moving around like that. Allow me, please, to continue.”

“You must be mad, 24601. The wound will heal just fine without your _help_ -” He spits out the word with as much contempt as he can muster. It is not much. He hates this vulnerability, this helpless dependence. To hell with it all! He’d be damned if he’d let the convict try that again! Unbidden, an image swims to the front of his mind, his self-control weakened by blood loss. _Valjean, crouching between his spread thighs, touching him…_ What is this he feels? No, no, surely not. Javert is not one accustomed to lying to himself, and in his confusion he lowers his knees. The motion jars his cock, sending white pain bursting through his veins. He cannot hold back a gasp.

Confused, wounded, Javert feels like a cornered wolf, far more so than when he had been surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered by a gang of criminals. Nails digging into clenched fists, chest taut, breathing ragged, he allows his trembling legs to be guided down by Valjean, who busies himself with the wound again, stroking  his thighs to soothe the pain. Strangely, it works.

 _What are you doing what are you doing control yourself stop stroking him for crying out loud can’t you see he’s in pain-_ And then, _this is the inspector, the hound, the pitiless monster that has chased you and that will never stop chasing you, that even now promises to return you to that hell when he is well again, that would condemn your soul to the gutter were it his decision to make-_ Valjean continues stroking gently, eyes fixed almost fearfully on Javert’s unfocused ones as he tries to assess his reaction. Javert’s lids flutter closed and his breathing evens, his color beginning to return to a vaguely human shade. Valjean sighs in relief, and, emboldened by a sudden recklessness – the day’s events are enough to make anyone drunk – inches his fingers inwards, upwards, till they are running slow circles on Javert’s inner thighs. Javert lets out a small groan, and immediately stiffens, eyes flying open. _It relieves the pain, that is all. That is why it feels good._ Valjean, heart thumping, smiles at him in what he hopes is a soothing manner, and begins to carefully bandage the wound. He is slowly winding strips of gauze around Javert’s cock, and Javert’s body is relaxing, pain ebbing away, but his muscles are tautening, his breath is coming faster, his neck is turning a deep rose-

“246- V- Valjean. Stop. You are a convict.” A pause, the room filled with the sound of quickening breaths, the atmosphere viscous as it always turns when souls and desires, minds and bodies, clash together in such a way – a way so silent, so intimate, so impossible to endure unless _something_ happens, unless someone’s lips find the other’s, unless someone’s soul embraces the other’s, unless someone’s mind lets go of everything they have held dear for as long as they care to remember.

“I have changed, Javert”. Valjean fumbles with the knot of the bandage; his fingers have turned to jelly, or lead. To Javert, they feel like fire.

“It is not possible.” The phrase, steely and unforgiving, echoes through the heavy air. The tone makes it float, fly, soar – there is a hint of confusion, a touch of indecision, a gaping well of desire.

Valjean’s eyes darken, untied bandage falling from limp fingers. “You think people cannot change? Still?”

“You, at least, cannot change; you are a -”

The kiss swallows the ugly word, and their lips are falling, rising, and they are sinking, soaring, tongues warring in the gutter and souls mingling in the heavens – the first few seconds are chaste, hesitant, unyielding. It should perhaps not be surprising that Javert’s mouth is the first to open, his tongue the first to brush lightly, then more insistently, along the line between Valjean’s lips, tasting him, pushing against him, forcing his way in, but Valjean will not have it, he places his hands tight and warm on the sides of Javert’s head, crushing them together as he nips Javert’s lower lip with his teeth, then grazes against his tongue, finally opening his mouth, breath begging for more, as Javert’s arms wrap around his torso, fingers dancing lightly up and down his sides. The kiss deepens, and Valjean shudders as he feels Javert’s bruising, demanding tongue taste every surface on the inside of his mouth. Javert’s arms move higher, finally entangling roughly with the hair on the nape of Valjean’s neck as Valjean shoves back into Javert’s mouth, his tongue running over the planes of Javert’s teeth, then teasingly withdrawing to the corners of his mouth, flicking out gently before being forced back to wrestle with Javert’s. As they groan into each other’s mouths, breath mingling, it is a struggle for domination and a surrendering acceptance, it is passion, it is war and peace.

They are balanced awkwardly, Javert half-raised from the divan, Valjean kneeling on the floor beside him despite an increasing pressure in his cock, arms and tongues entangled, when Javert suddenly pulls away, a final groan coupled with a wince. “I cannot -” he gasps, and suddenly Valjean is angry, angry at last. “Why not? Because I am a convict? Because I cannot change? Everyone can change – I already have, and so will you, Monsieur l’Inspecteur!” The title, spoken in contempt, hangs bitterly between them; uglier, somehow, than “convict”. Making a noise deep in the back of his throat that he himself does not know the meaning of, he pulls Valjean back into a violent kiss, lips crashing together, gasping and choking. Again, however, Javert pulls away just as the kiss begins to deepen, pushing Valjean away and turning his head.

“I cannot, because it burns, there…” Valjean had not thought it possible for Javert’s face to blush any more, but was proved wrong, as he had been so often today. As the meaning of Javert’s words hits him, he gasps in guilt, horror, and – dare he admit it? – disappointment at having to stop. Eyes flying to Javert’s cock, he sees it half-risen, the bandage stretching tight and painful across it, slowly turning a red that darkens and spreads, like a stain, or a storm, or a bleeding heart.

All Valjean wants is his own heart to bleed, feeding blood back into Javert’s, and taking his into him.


	5. Joined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this took a while, and the sex is COMING COMING COMING the next chapter is already written and will be up TODAY, but all of this really had to be said! I hope you like it!!!  
> Also, I added a chapter for a nice epilogue - really can't resist. xD

“Oh, lord, Javert…” Valjean is wretched – horrified at the pain he has caused the already wounded inspector, and at his own desperate desire to continue, to seize the inspector’s lips in another kiss, to taste the sweet salt of his tongue... Javert is flat on the divan, hands clenched at his side, breathing slow and determined. He does not open his eyes, trying helplessly to stem the torrent of thoughts rushing through his brain, rendered incoherent by pain, further jumbled the way his body is begging him for another kiss. _Stars, it hurts._ And then, _what is this happening to me? The pain is befuddling my senses – kissing the convict? What business does the whore’s brat have, being so good? What business does that damned 24601 have, forcing me to submit to his care? That kiss that was not a kiss was it a kiss, please, stars, no. Offering me jam – hah! Me, eating fresh strawberry jam made by the illegitimate brat of a fallen whore in the illegal home of a convict. By the stars I want to taste those lips again. Those strawberries were probably bought with stolen money. The entire situation is – stop, stop, ignore the pain, it’s only a slight burn, focus – ludicrous! Yes, ludicrous…_

Somewhere above him, he hears Valjean murmur, “Javert…”. Suddenly, he is no longer capable of rational thought, and his name on the convict’s lips goes straight to his head. No, he will not fall any lower! This will end, here, now. Valjean is muttering “I’m so sorry…” and Javert’s head suddenly snaps up, dazed yet crystal clear. “Why, 24601?” The sneering contempt would have been clear even without the sudden calculating glitter in Javert’s half-squeezed eyes, they deliberate twisting of his lips, the disgusted wrinkle in his sculpted nose. “Why on earth would you be sorry? You wish to drag me into your gutter, try to force me to forget what you are! Is that not why you took me in? To place me in your debt, to buy yourself a free ticket? And then, by the stars, if that was not enough, you wanted me to fall lower, to sink deeper into your filth with that monstrous _kiss_ …” His breath is coming ragged. He forces himself to stare into Valjean’s – the _convict_ ’s – eyes, though his stomach churns and his chest heaves and his heart wants to kill his mind –

Valjean’s eyes turn from guilty to shocked to angry to – what is it? Pity? Sadness? Acceptance? – in the space of a heartbeat. Javert expects more impassioned declarations along the lines of “I have changed” – _Pah! No one can change; I am nothing if not proof of that. I was born in the gutter, and look how my body demands I return to it, drown in its filth… even now I want to feel those lips again, taste that tongue, feel him move inside me, stars how I want to_ – but instead, Valjean’s next words still him to the core.

“You did not tell Cosette of my past.”

The statement is bland, emotionless, matter-of-fact, but they both know it has a meaning deeper than anything they have yet said to each other. It echoes.

Javert does not know what to say. “I – ” He stops, voice trailing away. “No I did not…” _I upheld Valjean’s pathetic illusion with the whore’s brat. Why?_

Beside him, Valjean echoes his thoughts. “Why not, Inspector?”

“Because… simply to… I do not kn – ” _Damn that convict, damn him to the deepest circle of hell_ – “Shut up, 24601! What does it matter? You attach disproportionate meaning to paltry events! I was wounded, tired, the girl was badgering me, I did not consider such a discussion worth the effort. And I do not get any particular pleasure in ruining the happiness of innocents – ” He is rambling, he knows… anything to avoid considering the _real_ answer to Valjean’s question. They are not lies, per se – he _was_ wounded, and he does _not_ derive any particular pleasure from needless hurt. But they are so far from the truth that he feels guilty all the same. Valjean’s eyes are not helping.

“Innocents? Ah, but Monsieur l’Inspecteur, according to your own philosophy, people can never change! They must remain as they were upon birth! Cosette’s mother was a whore – explain, then, how she can be ‘innocent’? Surely, she is already damned to the gutter?” The raw contempt in Valjean’s voice is unmistakable.

Javert is speechless – something in his stricken face seems to calm Valjean, who continues almost gently.

“I am a parole-breaking felon, in the eyes of the law. And I know that the law has no sharper pair of eyes than your own. I am therefore telling you now – I will care for you till you are well, and then I will tell Cosette everything and leave this place. Cosette will come with me if she wishes. I will, effectively, run from you again. Do not assume that I am handing myself over, Inspector. In that, at least, I have not changed. As long as you are the law, I will run, as would a criminal. But let me tell you this, as I tried in Montreuil-sur-Mer – the law has no heart. Perhaps, Inspector, you should look into yours. There, I think, you will find the answers you so desperately seek and avoid.”

He turns to leave, walking softly towards the door, when a soft knock is heard. “Papa? May I come in?” Valjean glances warily at Javert, whose eyes are closed, posture stiff. “Yes, of course, my darling. I was just coming to find you.”

Cosette enters the room lightly, eyes lighting up when she sees Javert freshly bandaged and seemingly asleep. “Oh good, Papa – Monsieur looks much better now. I am most relieved – he looked quite like a corpse when he fainted just now! I do think he will be healed in a week or so – wouldn’t you agree?”

“I hope so, Cosette – but we must care for him well.”

“Of course, Papa! I have just made the most delightful healing broth for when he wakes – it should do just the trick. And he never did get to try the jam… I must make more, I think.”

“You are very kind, my dear.”

“Oh, but Papa, I just feel so terribly guilty every time I realize that Monsieur is wounded so terribly, all because he tried to defend us! Imagine if those hooligans found their way inside – the very thought makes me shudder! We owe Monsieur a great debt, do we not?”

“Indeed, Cosette, that we do. I will be forever grateful for his protecting you from harm. I could never stand it if anything happened to you.”

“Or I you, Papa”, says Cosette, smiling and embracing him. “You are quite, quite sure than Monsieur here has no family or friends who would like to see him? He must be getting quite lonely.”

“Alas, Cosette, I fear he must be satisfied with our company. It saddens me too, but that is how it is.”

“In which case I will remain here in case he wakes. Nothing is more horrid than being confined to a sickbed and waking up in an empty room. Do go and get some rest, Papa – you look quite exhausted.”

Valjean leaves with a last, loving smile at his daughter, as Cosette takes a seat at the window across from Javert’s bed.

Javert squeezes his eyes tighter in frustration – if only the cursed pair would leave him alone! He does not like this feeling, this strange sensation of not understanding the motivation behind an action, the unexplored possibility of the road being not straight, but curved, and even, heaven forbid, of there being two divergent, opposing paths, each one negating the possibility of the other. _Stars… the girl is grateful! I was merely doing my duty, and I must continue to do so! I must return the convict to prison – that is the law. If she knew she would not care for me so, she would not inquire whether or not I am lonely – lonely! Pah! Whoever heard of such a thing! Those who walk in the light of the law, those who can look up at the stars unafraid, cannot be lonely! – Making me more jam, was once not enough? Cooking me special broth, changing my dressings, fetching me warm blankets – perhaps it is all a charade? Perhaps 24601 has put her up to this? This waiting by my bedside in case I wake – a ploy to throw me off their trail for once and for all. Why does my heart not accept it? By the stars, why do I want his lips on mine again?_

Time passes. The torrent of Javert’s thoughts, raging behind closed lids, makes him appear to sleep through the night and the next day. He hears Cosette and Valjean going about their day, cooking, cleaning, buying groceries, checking in on him, clucking worriedly and checking his temperature when he still does not wake. He keeps his breathing even, carefully maintains the rise and fall of his chest, even though it tightens almost beyond endurance when he feels Valjean’s cool hand caressing his forehead, lingering a tad longer than he knows is necessary, running through his hair as he withdraws, trailing fingers leaving tingling goosebumps in their wake –

Still he sleeps. The burning throb in his lower abdomen dulls to a manageable pain, then finally to nothing more than a slight ache. His thoughts fester, doubts worsening, then dulling, then worsening again. _Is it true, then? Has Valjean changed? Can I, then, change as well?_ He does not know when the convict changed from ‘24601’ to ‘Valjean’ in his thoughts, and finds that he does not want to. It seems natural, he realizes with a shock, not wrong. He does not want to think of why.

An idea strikes. Surely a conversation with Cosette – yes, her name is no longer ‘whore’s brat’ either – will unravel some ulterior motive, or at least clarify his bewildering position. And, after all, he does owe her something, especially as he is about to ruin her life. This is what he tells himself.

He ignores the small part of himself that hopes to be proved wrong, that hopes that Valjean is in earnest, that the sun can also be a star.

He opens his eyes. “Mademoiselle?”

She is at his side, instantly. “Oh, Monsieur, you gave us quite the fright, sleeping away like that! Papa was worried sick – thankfully, there were no signs of either fever or infection, else we would have been at our wits’ end! I do hope you are better?”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle, I could not hope for better care. I assure you I feel quite well.”

“That is delightful to hear, Monsieur. The wound in your side is almost completely healed, as are the ones on your back. As for the other injury – ” she pauses, delicately, “ – I’m sure Papa will discuss that with you. I shall fetch him directly, and also bring some broth. You must be quite starved!”

“Wait, Mademoiselle! I do not think I could swallow anything at this particular moment – nothing serious, just a slight nausea. And I fear I have already inconvenienced you a great deal. In fact, your father and I have had a rather negative relationship thus far. Please, do not disturb him on my behalf.”

Cosette’s face grew earnest, and she reached forwards to clasp Javert’s hand. “Monsieur – I do not know the history between yourself and my father, and frankly, I do not care. I know – indeed, I am more sure than anything – that we owe you a great debt for the injuries you have suffered while seeking to protect us. My father and I feel nothing but the deepest gratitude, whatever the past.”

Javert chokes, slightly, at this evidently honest declaration. Several decades in the police service have attuned his ears to lies, and to his hope and dismay, he can find none. _By the stars, the girl is not lying. But can Valjean feel the same? Assuming that this is, somehow,_ not _a ploy – can a changed convict ever truly come to peace those who once chained him? Why the damned kiss?_

“Perhaps, Mademoiselle, you could tell me about your life with your father? I do not, after all, know anything about you, which is quite shameful given that I have taken advantage of your hospitality quite shockingly these past weeks.” The smooth question, born of decades of interrogating criminals, is out of Javert’s lips before he has a chance to consider it. He tells himself he needs more information to come to a conclusion about Valjean, to continue to search for the plot he knows is there. But he cannot ignore the way his heart leaps, aching with the hope that what Valjean has said is true.

“Why, of course, Monsieur. Papa and I… when I was young, my mother could not care for me, and left me in the care of some innkeepers. I do not remember much, other than that I was miserable. Papa tells me they were quite cruel. He rescued me, and became my Papa... I could not hope for a more loving one. He gives me everything! We live quietly, Papa has money stored. I went to school at a convent as a child, now I continue my studies at home.”

“You live quietly, it seems, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes, we do live simply, Monsieur, but we are very happy. Without each other, Papa and I would both be alone in the world. Indeed, you are the first friend of his past life that I have had the privilege of meeting.”

A wry thought twists Javert’s mouth. “I hardly think you can call it friendship, Mademoiselle, what exists between myself and Valj – ” Horrified at letting the name slip _again_ – _Fool! Call yourself an inspector and yet this waif always manages to get under your guard! Stars know what havoc you’ve wreaked now –_ Javert stutters into abrupt silence, hoping Cosette will not notice, will attribute it to the pain –

“Ah, Monsieur, that name again! Really, I am quite beside myself to know of your history with Papa. Surely, it can be nothing so terrible that it must be hidden from one who loves him so, and would never leave him?”

Valjean, fatefully entering the room, blanches. _Lord in heaven, not this again._ Cosette turns to him, hands on hips.

“Really, Papa, I tire of this secrecy. You and Monsieur have been friendly enough these past few days – surely, your history can be nothing so terrible that even I, who loves you with all my soul, cannot know of it? And Papa, is it not you who always tells me that what is past is past, and is to be forgotten? Why will you not lay this to rest, at last?”

_She does not know she does not she cannot. If she finds out she will leave me and then what will happen? No no, I am too selfish to let her go. Granted, I am grateful to Javert for not telling her at first, but why does the man keep bringing it up?_

Javert feels he must speak. “Indeed, Mademoiselle, some things must be laid to rest and forgotten. But are they not easier to forget if they were never known in the first place? I do beg your forgiveness for bringing up the subject again, Monsieur”, he continues, addressing Valjean.

The single word, ‘Monsieur’, sends Valjean’s thoughts into a frenzied uproar. _Javert… in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he was suspicious even then, but he respected me I think, he would call me ‘Monsieur’ and I would call him ‘Javert’ and he would report to me and lord in heaven I wanted to run from him but at the same time, even then, I could not stand in his presence without wanting to never leave it, and then he came to apologize for defaming me as a convict – never have I encountered a man more honorable than he._ And then – _Cosette, my child, she deserves to know, she deserves to know the sort of man she lives with, and Javert’s kindness in keeping this secret of mine – I cannot place this burden of falsehood on the shoulders of a man so honorable. I will run from him if he tries to send me back to that hell – even I do not think I belong there – but I cannot assume to be honest in Cosette’s eyes any longer, cannot force her to be ignorant of the shameful stain on my past. Not my innocent, darling, beloved Cosette._

“No, Javert. Cosette is right – she is a grown woman now, and this secret affects her greatly. I will tell you now, my dear, here where the Inspector can listen and tell you that what I say is true – ” Javert looks into Valjean’s eyes, and sees deep, clear pools of single-minded peace. The eyes terrify him – they are bottomless as the stars, shining oddly like the sun.

“Stars, man, are you out of your senses? After all these years of protecting your secret – ”

“Nay, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, to hide it any longer is a crime. The lord has sent you here, there is a purpose.” Valjean’s eyes meet Javert’s wide, slightly awed ones, which are both darkening in incomprehension and lightening in wonder. Turning his back on, Valjean goes to stand by the window. He does not know that, in that instant, the soft glow of the Bishop’s candlesticks illuminate his face, removing all traces of shadow. The sun, streaming in through the open window, refracts through his hair. It is a halo, and Javert stares, transfixed.

“I am a convict, Cosette. Years ago, I was called Jean Valjean - I broke into a bakery and stole some bread. They caught me, sentenced me to five years of hard labour in Toulon. I tried to escape; they caught me, again and again. Five years stretched to eight, then ten, then nineteen. I was released, finally, on parole. I could not find work – my yellow papers ensured no honest man would hire me. The Bishop of Digne – may he rest forever in peace – was the first to treat me like a man, offering me food and a bed. The greatest shame of my life is that I broke his trust – I stole his silver cutlery, the only precious thing he owned! Ah, Cosette, you know not how I have tortured myself for that. But it is good, I deserved it, for the sin was great. Of course, I was caught again, I was looking at life in Toulon for now I was a repeat offender. And then, the Bishop changed my life, forever. I owe him everything, body and soul. He told the gendarmes that he had given me his silver as a gift, made them let me go. I did not understand – then he gave me his two silver candlesticks – the ones you see behind me, there, that you always ask why I love so; now you know.  He told me he was buying my soul for God, that I must use the money to become an honest man. I tried, Cosette, I tried to find work, but I could not. I did the only thing I could – broke parole, and set myself up under the alibi of Monsieur Madeleine in the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, where I met your mother. She was dying, and I promised to care for you, but before I could fetch you I was found out by Monsieur Javert here, who recognized me from Toulon. I was forced to run. I went straight to fetch you, and we have been hiding since. You know the rest, my d –” He stops midway through the endearment that was once so easy on his tongue. He does not know if he has the right to use it any longer, indeed if he ever had the right.

Cosette is standing frozen. “Monsieur here – is who we are hiding from? He is this –” she hesitates, “Inspector Javert?” The name hangs heavy in the air, out-of-place on her habitually bright lips.

Valjean hangs his head. “Yes, Cosette.”

“Why did you not tell me?"

Valjean’s head sinks lower. “Cosette, my child – know this. I love you, lord in heaven how I love you – I swear to you, if nothing else, this is the truth. I could not stand to leave you; I was selfish, I could not bear the thought of you looking at me with the hatred that I know is my due. Now you know, you will leave me, as is your right – once you do, I need run no longer, I will have nothing to run for. I will allow Monsieur l’Inspecteur to arrest me – and you will be free, my child! Free of me and the stain I bear, free of the gutter –”

Cosette is visibly shaking. “You… were one of those men on the chain gang? Monsieur here – when he is well, he will arrest you?”

“I am sure that is his intention – he himself assured me that all that has been stopping him thus far is that he has misplaced his handcuffs. And I will run no longer, Cosette, once you leave me.”

Cosette reaches towards the wall for support, knuckles turning white as she presses against it, grip like a vise. And then, suddenly the words are tumbling out of Javert’s mouth, uncontrollably, smoothly, reassuringly, as if they had always been waiting to be said, as if they were all that could be true.

“No, Mademoiselle Cosette – Valjean has, once again, neglected to mention some key details. All those years ago, he stole bread not for himself, but to feed his sister’s children, who were starving. Nineteen years he spent in Toulon for this crime – and yet, Mademoiselle, he changed! In Montreuil, he became Mayor – the entire town thrived as never before under his influence. I myself worked under him – yes, I suspected his identity, but never due to any ignoble action, but only a physical resemblance. He was discovered, finally, because he confessed after another man was branded with his identity and past crimes – he could not condone an innocent being sentenced to his fate! I regret, Mademoiselle, that at that time I thought it was all a ploy – I determined to hunt him, and hunt him I have, until now, until I have at last come to see that he had indeed dedicated his soul to God. Your father, Mademoiselle, would have you believe he is a convict and a cheat; I tell you, _he is so no longer!_ ”

Javert is horrified, thrilled, at the words coming out of his mouth – they are wrong, they cannot be, yet they fit as nothing else has ever fit before; they are _right_. He feels a profound peace.

“Then, Monsieur, you will not arrest him?”

“I will not.”

Valjean sinks to his knees against the wall – he has the dazed look of a man who has been running for years from a beast, only to realize that it no longer exists. Cosette rushes to embrace him – “Papa! Oh papa, see everything is safe, you are good I know you are, the past is past and must be forgotten! How you could think I would be false enough to leave you for mistakes you made decades ago, when you have shown me nothing but love! Oh Papa – you are so good, yet you give the rest of the world far too little credit. Look at Monsieur Javert here – of _course_ he cannot arrest one such as you! Oh, Papa…” her voice dissolves into tears, soaking the front of his shirt.

Slowly, gently, as if afraid of breaking his own arms, Valjean brings them to rest around Cosette’s shoulders. She shudders, sobbing into the touch. “Oh Papa…” Slowly, she quiets, bringing her tear-streaked face up with a glowing smile, directed first at Valjean, then Javert. “Everything is perfect now… I will go and walk, I think, to sort through my thoughts. Remember – I will _never_ leave you.”

She gets up, brushing herself off, and walks through the doorway. As she turns to shut it behind her, she pauses – “Thank you, Monsieur Javert. You are a good man.”

 And then it is them, the two of them, they are alone, and the room is suddenly alight with electricity, that glows with a balm as if sent straight from heaven. There are no words, only the knowledge that comes from the fruition, at last, of a destiny that was always meant to be –

They are in each other’s arms, in the middle of the room, and the kiss this time has none of the violence, the hesitation, of the last – it is a triumph and a consummation, it is a final peace after a lifetime of war; it is the stars being eclipsed by the sun, yet shining through for after all they are the same.


	6. Deepened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is at last... thank you for keeping up with me through this fic! Only the conclusion left... sobs and joy. Hope you like this scene... its basically just porn... *bites nails*

They collide with such force that their mouths mash together, hard enough that each can feel the outline of the other’s teeth through the dual layers of skin and lips in between. If their mouths are glowing brands then their hands are a furnace and their hips the glowing balls of gas that call themselves stars… except that it is their mouths that are the stars and the rest of their bodies have long been scorched to cinders. Chastity forgotten, they are breathing into each other, tongues swirling, tasting, sucking, probing deeper and deeper; their hands are fluttering in a confused yet perfectly choreographed dance across each other’s sides, stomach, back, floating up to caress the back of a sweaty neck, tangling in the growth of hair at the nape, then ghosting down to squeeze buttocks, legs arching in the search for ever-greater friction –

Javert’s cock, not yet fully healed, throbs slightly, but this is after all merely another burn and his body is made up of burning, of fire, of flames rising higher and higher – he growls as Valjean leans away briefly to lock the door, slamming their chests and mouths back together in a motion that is felt all the way through their hips and down to their toes –

The wound, now covered with a  fresh layer of healing skin, does not crack open, though it stretches taut at Javert’s fast-growing erection. The sensation would be painful if it were not Valjean it was rubbing against, Valjean’s stomach it was caressing, Valjean’s own cock that was spurring it higher – Javert feels nothing but ecstasy, he has never felt like this before and it overwhelms him, drives him further, faster –

They are thrusting against each other, the nightshift has already been rucked up so that it is twisted around Javert’s neck, and Valjean tries to get it off without breaking the scorching kiss that they have kept up all this time but of course he cannot – with a deep growl of frustration, he lifts his mouth off Javert’s, only to bring it crashing back, nightshift forgotten, at Javert’s sudden whine at being bereft of the pressure of his mouth –

Javert captures Valjean’s lips between his own and sucks, and Valjean makes a noise he did not know he was capable of, deep in his chest, that tingles through Javert’s entire body before coming to rest at his lips; with a gasp, he wrenches his mouth away and applies his tongue to the curve of Valjean’s cheek, the soft lobe of his ear, the side of his neck, impatiently throwing off the nightshift so that he is completely naked. Valjean is twisting against him, emitting needy growls, one hand entangled in his hair, the other pressing hard arcs into the muscles of Javert’s shoulders and back, and if his hand were a knife it would have sliced open Javert’s skin, but of course it is not and instead is only an anchor that is both holding them in place and drowning them with its weight.

Javert’s tongue is tracing wet trails down Valjean’s neck; his body thrums with an animal satisfaction he did not know he was capable of when he sees the way Valjean melts against him in response, like chocolate on flames – he growls in genuine fury as he encounters the collar of Valjean’s shirt, realizing that he is still fully clothed, and begins to unfasten the buttons; but even the momentary lack of contact is horrible, freezing, unendurable, and he forces their hips closer together, leaning back to reach Valjean’s buttons, undoing them one by one, sweet relief coursing through him as he tangles his fingers in the soft, dark hair on Valjean’s muscled chest, leaning in to graze it with his teeth –

Valjean jerks his head back up for another kiss, slower this time, yet somehow more smoldering. Something is building up in the pit of Javert’s belly, growling, then roaring, clamoring for escape, as Valjean throws off his belt and trousers, and finally – _finally!_ – steps out of his underwear. Javert thrusts wildly against Valjean’s freshly exposed cock, but to his dismay the motion sends a burst of pain up his lower back and down through his thighs. His injury has left his cock in no fit state for prolonged thrusting, or anything more intense. The thought of stopping now, _now!_ , when everything is so right, when they have found each other, when the stars and sun are one, is nothing less than the most hideous torture, and Javert screws his eyes up against the pain, determined to go on –

Valjean notices, Javert sees him notice, and he is suddenly terribly afraid that the man will stop, will insist that he needs to heal; his mouth cannot form words, but his eyes shoot desperation as he waves his head wildly from side to side, a plea and demand for Valjean to continue –

Valjean is terrified that Javert will need to stop, sees him screw up his eyes in pain and shake his head desperately; he tries to ignore it, but cannot endure another moment of causing his lover pain, and he begins to withdraw. But, just as he begins to move away he sees Javert’s hooded eyes shoot up in fear and unrestrained desire, begging him to stay, and suddenly he knows what to do –

Valjean lowers himself to his knees before Javert, slowly, tongue tracing down the smooth planes of Javert’s chest, tracing his belly, floating through the downy thatch of hair below, skating over the delicate skin of the wound, leaving little trailing kisses, before latching itself firmly on the tip of his cock. He sucks, gently. Javert’s eyes close and his breath hitches, then he moans aloud as Valjean sucks deeper, swirling his tongue on the very tip of Javert’s cock, then licking and kissing up its length, stopping just short of the wound and ghosting a kiss on it before working his way back down and beginning anew. Javert is trembling, and reaches out a hand to brush against Valjean’s hair before hesitating and retreating. Valjean seizes the hand and places it firmly atop his head before grabbing the other one and doing the same, as Javert moans and suddenly tightens his fingers in a vise-like grip on Valjean’s hair, pressing down harder and harder as Valjean swallows more and more of Javert’s length until his mouth holds all of it up to the wound. A brief hesitation, then Valjean’s hands reach up to cup Javert’s buttocks and he is forcing him to thrust into his mouth; Javert complies with a whine of agonized need as he thrusts stronger and stronger into Valjean’s mouth, and he is trembling harder, convulsively losing control, but Valjean’s hands are strong and sure and always stop him just short of the wound, peppering it with feather-light kisses but otherwise leaving it completely untouched –

And with a final contraction of Valjean’s tongue, a final stretch of his lips and widening of his throat, Javert is coming hot and wet in his mouth, and Valjean is swallowing him and Javert cannot think of anything but how much he loves the man as he watches in fascination, reaching down when it is finished to raise Valjean and press their lips together. This kiss is chaste compared to the others, a mutual benediction, a soft agreement that the stars will accept the sun as one of their own, in exchange for being allowed to shine forth in glory without being eclipsed by the sun’s might.

The kiss deepens, Valjean’s unsatisfied need pressing hot and tight against Javert’s belly, the beginnings of a clear fluid pooling on the tip of his cock and mixing with the trails of sweat and saliva down Javert’s stomach. Valjean moans into the kiss, and Javert’s body thrums in response – _stars, how can the man do this to him_ – and he shifts away from Valjean’s lips to kiss behind his earlobe once more, aiming for the spot that he knows will turn the man into a keening, whining, delectably melted thing… he finds it, and Valjean arches into his embrace, breath coming ever faster, until his legs give out from under him and he only remains upright with Javert’s support. But Javert is still weakened, and Valjean is much heavier than him, so they sink to the floor in a breathless tangle of arms and legs and lips and hips –

Javert lays Valjean down and covers him with his body, nipping the tender earlobe before working down, ghosting kisses on his shoulder blades and sucking the sensitive underarm joint. He traces each scar on the shoulder, brutal reminders of years under the lash, and though Valjean stiffens, Javert forces him to relax as he increases the intensity of his touches, rubbing his hair into that shoulder, nuzzling against it, turning the cruel scars into something entirely more holy and somehow even more forbidden, before trailing down his arm. He lavishes attention on the inner elbow as Valjean convulses beneath their hips that are oh so close but oh so tortuously far apart; then goes lower, planting deep, resonating kisses in his palm before ending with a chaste peck between each knuckle that sends Valjean ever closer to the edge –

“God, Javert, I need you… need something… now…” Valjean is moaning incoherently, and Javert reaches down, taking his cock in his hands and intending to finally lead his lover to completion, but his own erection is throbbing painfully once more – _stars, and he thought he was injured!_ – and then he has an idea that seems ludicrous, impossible, for he never once imagined it coming to this, but he likes it more the more he thinks about it, and the day has already been full of surprises; this will be just one more.

He withdraws himself from Valjean’s body, completely severing any contact, and though he cannot choke back a strangled gasp at the sudden emptiness, he wants – _needs_ – to see Valjean’s eyes when he says it. “Valjean” – _the name, once hated and negated, now leaping easily off his tongue, no more thoughts of ‘convict’ or ‘24601’ –_ “…take me.” And if he wanted to see Valjean’s eyes he is right; they darken, pupils contracting in surprise then dilating in desire and longing and something that Javert can finally admit to himself is love.  His mouth opens slightly, an “are you sure” frozen on his lips as he realizes that of course Javert is sure, how could he not be sure; and Valjean would never have thought it would come to this but it feels oh so right –

Without breaking eye contact, Javert turns slowly till his is balanced on his hands and knees to avoid any undue pressure on his still healing cock. A blue sun meets brown stars, the look intensifying to a glowing blaze, and then Valjean’s head and torso are curling over Javert’s arched ones, seizing the lips in a rippling, twisted convulsion of shoulders that is agony, pain, bliss to hold, as he places his hands on Javert’s waist to position him, gently kneeing his legs further apart while holding his hips aloft with the sheer strength of his forearms. Valjean leans down to splay his mouth on Javert’s opening, tongue flicking and swirling and tasting, probing deeper and deeper, as Javert writhes, moaning incoherently. And now it is Javert who is losing himself, it is only Valjean’s formidable strength that keeps him aloft as he melts, sublimes into a vapor of passion, like the drizzling haze of water vapor that is the fate of ice on stars –

They are both ready; Valjean reaches a finger tentatively into Javert’s opening only to have his hand slapped away with surprising ferocity; he feels a tug on his cock and sees Javert’s hand pulling it from under him, and the sight is strangely arousing, tipping him over the edge; he is an animal, and he is more than willing to dispense with the foreplay as Javert begs him, commands him, to “stop being so damn gentle”, moaning “I need you, Valjean, now, _now_ , do it now” –

 And then he is inside, slamming into Javert, buried hilt-deep; they need nothing to ease the way, Valjean’s cock has been leaking and they are both limned in sweat and the trailing remnants of kisses. Javert’s vision blurs at a sensation so intensely new, so intensely unforgettably _sublime_ ; and then Valjean withdraws and he is gasping his name, he does not know that he is calling him “Jean”, but Valjean notices, and drives deep again and again, finally hitting the spot that makes Javert shudder, tremble like a leaf in a storm, with a keening scream of “Jean!” that ends in a guttural whine as Valjean withdraws again. He is moving quickly, desperately positioning himself for another thrust, but even this pause is too long for Javert, who arches his hips high and swaying towards Valjean with a wordless cry at the sudden emptiness. Valjean stands, thrusting into Javert with all the force he can muster, and the angle drives him deeper than ever, far into Javert’s core, and it is too much, too much for both of them – Valjean is coming, hot and tingling, buried to the brim inside Javert, writhing, screaming Javert’s name, and Javert is gasping “oh, Jean…” over and over and over again as Valjean brings a hand around his waist to his cock, only to have it filled after a single stroke as Javert joins him at this climax, this consummation, this joining, this love.

Javert is exhausted, wounds and cock tender – the scabs on his back are cracked and bleeding after this exertion and the demands of Valjean’s fingernails, but it is only another burn and Javert embraces it, welcomes it as the final, lingering sensation of the ecstasy of their coupling. Valjean leans down and picks him, carrying him back to the divan, and Javert leans up to capture Valjean’s lips with his own in a slow, tasteful, elegant kiss that is the closing of the past, the love of the present and the infinite promise of the future –

Javert reaches for his nightshift and drapes it over himself as Valjean brings a washbasin that they share, the cloths feeling softer and rougher, warmer and cooler, after they are used by the other. The water turns cloudy with the remains of their coupling, and a deep flush creeps up Javert’s neck that Valjean is tempted to try and kiss away when the door handle twists, once, then several more times. Valjean, still naked, freezes, heart pounding. Thankfully, the door does not open, and Valjean fervently thanks the lord in heaven for his foresight in locking it. Beside him, Javert has gone white, but calms when he, too, realises the door is locked.

“Papa? I am back from my walk, and I have stew for you and Monsieur Javert… why is the door locked?”

Valjean exchanges an uneasy glance with Javert, before saying, “Ah, my dear, I was just helping Monsieur Javert wash, as his wounds are slightly troublesome – we will be done directly.”

Beside him, Javert explodes into laughter. Valjean is rushing around, picking up his clothes, and he shoots him a look that clearly says he thinks Javert has gone stark raving mad. Javert’s laughter dies down to sniggers, as he says “ha… what you said there, even that was not a lie” and Valjean understands, smiling in the glow of the candlesticks, eyes lightening and brightening and shining like a sea of stars and like the sun.

Javert stares deep into those eyes, entranced as he always is by the glow of the candlesticks – _stars, we made love under those candlesticks, in the Bishop’s light! And yet I feel not damned, but raised…_ – until Valjean walks to the door and unlocks it to admit Cosette, balancing bowls and cutlery atop a deep dish of savory stew.

There will be words, later; there will need to be many. Attempts to understand why, plans for the future, and the less physical expressions of admiration that separate love from lust. There will be arguments and clashing convictions, for, though men change, it is neither immediate nor a complete reversal.

But there will also be passion and acceptance and hope. As Cosette bustles around setting up a makeshift table, the three of them will eat together in the room that is filled with smiles, and joy, and memories and promises of love. There is a sunset that is also elsewhere a sunrise, in the glow of the sun that is also a star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments much appreciated - constructive criticism, suggestions - more fluff? pain? angst? family stuff? blood? - and of course LOVE FEED ME LOVE... although even flames are good. LOVE YOU ALL


End file.
